


Ashtray Heart

by Kami_del_Antro



Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Guild Wars Series (Video Games)
Genre: LOTS of violence, Lots of Abuse, M/M, OCxOC - Freeform, for those interested in seeing more about Mozz at least, this might fill in some gaps in my previous story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2020-03-07 18:38:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18878950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kami_del_Antro/pseuds/Kami_del_Antro
Summary: When Arlen left, Morrissey's life fell appart around him. The Knight of Decadence is in grave danger, and this time not even his cunning will be enough to save him.Just this once, he'll have to find another way.





	1. Decadence

**Author's Note:**

> It's here.
> 
> The idea of this story appeared on my mind a few chapters in Poison Heart, when the ending was more or less decided. This story will be parallel to another story I'm currently writing - which will be longer, and more complicated than this one.
> 
> This one will be pretty much like Poison Heart in terms of chapter and story structure - which is to say, it'll be very freeform.
> 
> With that out of the way, a word before we start:  
> My aim with this story is to explore Morrissey's character. I invite you to read with criteria and to take the narration with a grain of salt. This, as was Arlen's story, is a deeply introspective tale, and it's very much based on actual experiences with abuse and the scars it leaves in a person's mind. This is, in no shape of form, apologia of abusers and what they do. If you're looking for that, this story isn't for you.
> 
> Thank you for joining me once again. Let's begin, shall we?

 

Sharp pain on his back was all Morrissey could feel, as soon as he opened his eyes. He moaned and tried to get up, but found his arms to be too weak to support his weight. Dark visions raced on his mind, full of a dense fog now, but as soon as he tried to catch them, they vanished, washed away by the sharp, orange light that suddenly surrounded him.

He dropped once more on his belly on the soft bedding, blinking. A terrible sense of loss overcame him all of the sudden, and he felt at the verge of unwelcome tears. But as soon as he started to curl up, fire ignited on his heart, and he curled his hands into fists.

“That ungrateful little Soundless…” he grunted, baring his teeth in a grimace.

“Is that how you thank me, Dearheart?” a voice called, and Morrissey felt his body painfully tensing up. “Is that how you greet me, now that I’m back to you from my travels?”

Sitting in a throne of thorns, a tall, purple figure observed him carefully. His bright, light blue eyes squinted with barely concealed anger, and strands of grass-like growths adorned the center of his head. His red, thorny armor made him look like an apparition of pure malevolence, even if his voice was velvet, and his appearance -his helmet resting on his lap, his beauty beyond compare- made him look like a kind, ambitious ruler rather than a tyrant.

“Laurent,” Morrissey muttered, suddenly breathless. “My Count.”

Laurent smiled; a painful gesture, full of thorns.

“It makes me happy to know you remember my name,” he cheered, even if his eyes shimmered with rage. “Even if you have forgotten everything else.”

A cold sensation nested on Morrissey’s belly, as his breathing hinged even if he tried to conceal it. Still, he never avoided Laurent’s eyes.

“How could I forget my Count, my master, my world,” he murmured, swallowing hard. “My Dearheart.”

Laurent stood up from his throne, slowly walking towards the bedding, as Morrissey resisted the urge to recoil. Still, he flinched when Laurent stretched out his arm, softly caressing his cheek.

“Beautiful, loving Morrissey,” he said, as the Knight felt barely brave enough to breathe. “So weak and fragile. I had to carry you here myself; you know how much I dislike to stench others in your soft skin whenever I make you mine.”

He forced the courtier to lay on his back, and Morrissey arched himself slightly, feeling the sting of Arlen’s dagger on his back while doing so. Laurent's hand wandered from his cheek to his neck, softly touching his skin, making him swallow a lump.

“Oh, how I missed you, my Knight,” Laurent said, softly pressing Morrissey’s throat with his hand. “Your scheming eyes, the petals of your hair, your skinny body that so perfectly fits between my arms. I even missed your sweet aroma, tampered with the smell of the scum you let fuck you.”

He suddenly pressed down harder. Morrissey dared not to move, his chest moving up and down as his breathing hinged once more.

“So beautiful, yet so weak,” grunted Laurent, inching closer. “So much you needed something inside you, you chose a Soundless?”

“I missed you so, my Count,” Morrissey struggled to say, trying to swallow despite Laurent’s hand pressing down even further. “My own devices weren’t enough to match your touch. That little toy meant nothing to me; too young and weak to treat me like I deserve.”

“And yet you wronged me, still,” Laurent snarled, as his control slipped a notch and Morrissey began to grab his hand, trying to breathe. “You wronged me once again. It’s as if you don’t love me anymore.”

The courtier felt a ring on his ears, and stopped pretending control to claw at Laurent’s hand, who pressed down without mercy.

“What should I do to you?” he pondered, unflinching. “What is it that you deserve?”

“Punish… me!” Morrissey pleaded in a breathless whisper, fruitlessly struggling.

“So you admit to have wrong me, my Dearheart?” Laurent said, entertained with Morrissey’s growing desperation. “You admit to have betray me?”

“I’m… sorry,” Morrissey muttered, struggling to stay conscious. “I love… you.”

Finally, Laurent let go, and Morrissey scrambled to the side of the bed, coughing and wheezing for air. His arms, however, couldn’t support his weight, so he ended up resting on his belly once again, arms folded beneath him.

“And I love you as well, my slippery Dearheart,” Laurent said, caressing the petals on Morrissey’s head. “That’s why I allow you to hurt me so much. That’s why I keep you beside me.”

The contact made Morrissey shiver, as Laurent’s finger coiled around his inner petals. He was still shaking and coughing, but the caress started to melt his fear into a deliciously confusing pleasure.

Laurent’s hands then caressed his neck, where bruises were starting to show, and then went lower, and lower. He grabbed Morrissey’s silky robe in his fists and squeezed it, leaving wrinkles as he suddenly tore them off. The other sylvari flinched once more, as Laurent peeled off his clothes with little regard of them, until he exposed his back and ran his hands through the length from his neck to the base of his spine.

“So soft…” Laurent murmured, rubbing Morrissey’s back with hungry hands. “So immaculate.”

Morrissey softly sighed, as Laurent climbed up on the bed and sat on his ass, keeping him steady as he touched him as he pleased. Laurent’s hands were always so warm, so full of unbound desire. He touched the sides of his torso, making him squirm, and then grabbed his prominent, always bony hips, chuckling under his breath.

“You’re always perfect, my love,” Laurent sighed, pressing down with one hand on the little of his back. “I wonder what would be left of you if that wasn’t the case.”

Sharp pain, as he pressed on his stab wound. Morrissey couldn’t help but to cry out, as he felt Laurent chuckle again.

“Now you’re the one hurting,” he said, leaning down to whisper on his lover’s ear. “Good.”

Suddenly, Laurent stood up, retreating a few steps back and admiring the sight of Morrissey on his bed, clenching the bedding on his fists. Then grabbed a thorn whip from his belt.

The first lash made him cry out again, tears pooling on his eyes, but Morrissey knew better than to complain. With each lashing he could feel his skin breaking, as the thorns dug and buried themselves on his back before being violently pulled out. With eyes closed and cheeks wet, the Courtier counted the lashes on his mind - anything was better than to focus on the pain, and the cold feeling of blood running down, ruining the bedding.

“A year,” Laurent said, between lashes. “For a year you allowed yourself to be fucked by Soundless scum. Unconverted Soundless scum. You should’ve killed him, you should’ve pushed him towards the darkness. But instead, you decided to disrespect me.”

One lash, right on his stab wound, made Morrissey cry out again. He had to keep counting. He had to keep his mind out of it.

“Sariel wanted to tear you down, petal by petal,” Laurent kept explaining, his hands now stained with the amber blood that dripped from the thorn whip, his breathing getting faster with each strike he dealt. “But that would’ve make only her happy. So I’m in charge of your punishment, my love. Aren’t you glad?”

He couldn't help it. With each strike, Morrissey grunted in pain, clenching his fists, squeezing the bedding, biting his lip until he drew blood. Numbers were scrambled on his head, and in his daze, he thought it was one strike for each time he had loved Arlen.

“Aren’t you glad?” Laurent asked once more, striking again. Morrissey grunted once more, chewing on his busted lip, tasting blood. “Answer me.”

He couldn't. His head was spinning, and the pain was ever-present.

“Are you disrespecting me again?” Laurent muttered, dangerously.

And he unleashed his anger, each strike marking his words.

“Aren’t… you… glad?!” he growled, striking harder, and faster. Morrissey whined, and recoiled. “Answer me!”

“I…” babbled Morrissey, his voice like broken glass.

“AREN’T… YOU… GLAD?!”

“I’m…”

“ANSWER ME, YOU LITTLE WHORE!”

“I AM!” cried Morrissey, before passing out.

Laurent stopped, the whip mid-air, and he looked down upon his unconscious lover. His face so peaceful, yet wrinkled at parts with lines of pain. His lower lip, dripping blood and saliva on the bedding. And his back, a mess of blood and open wounds. The Courtier smiled, caressing Morrissey’s petals once again - a tender gesture of love and devotion.

“Ah! Dearheart,” Laurent murmured, setting the whip aside and sitting beside the unconscious sylvari. “Staying mad at you proves to be an impossible feat.”

He leaned in, softly kissing Morrissey’s cheek, making him sigh.

“Am I being too soft?” Laurent wondered, speaking to his lover’s ear. “It can’t be helped. I guess I just love you too much.”

His hand traced Morrissey’s back, smearing the blood, making his lover wince. And with a glimmer of lust on his eyes, he kept going down.

“Now I’ll remind you why you love me as well,” he murmured, kneeling on the bed, getting rid of his armored pants.


	2. Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this was really, reaaaally hard to write. Whoever said that writing fanfics would help coping was, well, right, but also a dickhead.

Life was thorns, and every step was pain.

Morrissey saw the world as it was, and the world was cruel, and bleak. He saw war; a lush land, burned to the ground. Armies colliding, blood being spilled. Battles where the stench of death and rotting flesh was the backdrop of the survivor’s tears - a dark symphony, alongside the calling of crows feeding on the forgotten bodies.

He saw the world, and the world was a cracked shell of neverending sorrow. He saw the vast silhouettes of powerful presences; consumers of worlds, maddening in their power. Eating, and gnawing away all that was beauty and grace, leaving barren lands of crystal, and corruption, and freezing cold, and molten rocks, and the deep, dreadful darkness of the depths of the sea. And he saw the mere insinuation of a secret so terrible, so painful, that it made him recoil in fear, returning to the, in comparison, more amicable landscapes of mortal cruelty.

In the midst of a haze of horror, he saw the evilness of human history - the unexplainable rage of the Guild Wars. Where men raised arms against their brothers, and their blood was spilled. He heard a human’s voice, so tired of traveling and waging senseless wars, but couldn’t understand the words. They seemed to be a lament, or a sigh, upon finding a haven to rest his head against his lover’s equestrian-like lap.

Ventari whispered quietly in the wind. A wind of light and unknown flowers. Morrissey remembered him without ever knowing him, and his visage attempted to put his mind at ease. But he could feel the darkness breathing down on his neck, and light seemed a lie, a mockery.

_ Fear not this night _ , a voice said, soft as velvet, tender as the caress of a mother on a child’s cheek as she wipes their tears away.  _ You will not go astray, my child _ .

In front of him, the light intensified. Awakening.

_ You will know fear, and pain _ , the voice lamented.  _ You will know the dark corners of the world. Poison will touch you, will suffocate you. But it will not taint your heart. _

The pain of cruel whips, the fear of being yet another body in the dirt, his blood feeding the neverending violence.

_ War might be eternal, my child _ , the voice beckoned - the pale figure of a mother, extending her arms towards her lost child.  _ But pain it is not. The fear you will know will make you strong, for the night is not neverending. Darkness might consume the light of the day, and for a second, there will be no way out of its embrace. _

He felt a hand on his shoulder. A powerful, warm hand. But where had it come from? For behind him, there was only darkness…

_ You must press on, _ the voice called.  _ You must be strong. And then-... _

But Morrissey didn’t want to listen anymore. He turned, and ran towards the darkness, where strong arms held him tight, tying him up to the neverending night, shielding him from the storm - but also from the light. He cried in darkness, and in darkness he opened his eyes to the world.

It was midnight, and Serimon didn’t understand why he was crying.

Morrissey jumped awake, in a haze of pain, and confusion. Still laying on his belly, he found he couldn’t move at all; his back still stung, even days later, and his body felt battered, and bruised. He blinked and looked around; the orange light was dim, and faded. Beside him, Laurent’s warm body rested in a satisfied slumber. Everytime he breathed in, his hair and the hard lines of his handsome face lit up.

The Knight’s breathing hinged, as he tried to move away, fast, but silently. His back felt encrusted with blood, and every movement hurt, but he managed to stand up; his knees buckling at every step, as he limped towards Laurent’s room’s inner spring.

The water was cold, but it was a balm for his wounds. His wrists felt sore, and under his own light, Morrissey noticed the bruises.  _ How strange _ , he thought. He had fainted before anything could happen, and only pain remained to recall what Laurent had made afterwards. There was no need for tying him up.

Trembling slightly, Morrissey stepped under the thin waterfall - the water turning a golden, amber color as he washed his arms and torso. He hesitated to touch his back; still sore, and raw. It would take a while to heal. And Laurent counted on that. So he let water fall from the top of his head, lightly caressing the petals of his hair, and softly touching the open, screaming wounds on his back.

He winced, and closed his eyes. They felt puffy - encrusted with tears, as the water washed away the pain, and the distant memory of a nightmare he once had. He couldn’t remember the details anymore. It had been so long.

In the darkness of his own mind, however, a light appeared. A red light, in the middle of the night of a dark, gleaming skin. Morrissey sighed, softly, as he hugged himself tightly. The water, in its soft, cleansing embrace, felt like the arms of a tender lover, pulling him closer. Healing his wounds. Kissing the pain away.

“My Knight?” Laurent murmured, and Morrissey opened his eyes, but dared not to move. “What are you doing here, out of our bed?”

As the other sylvari stepped into the room, the dim light turned a brighter, more lively shade of orange. Morrissey doubted for a second, before answering without raising his head.

“I needed to clean up, my Count” he mumbled, his lips still puffy and stiff. “That’s all.”

A moment of silence, before the water around his knees got disturbed by a second body joining him in the spring. He felt Laurent’s hands -always warm, like living embers- on his shoulders, and he couldn’t help to recoil ever so slightly.

“These wounds are my doing,” Laurent stated, softly caressing Morrissey’s shoulders. “So I must be the one to clean them up.”

“You don’t need to-...” Morrissey tried to say, but Laurent began to softly massage his shoulder blades.

He felt the sting of pain in the living flesh of his back, but the way Laurent lovingly removed the amber buildup, how he carefully massaged the soreness away, how he kissed the bruises, and how close he was, allowing him to feel the warmth of his body against his back, made Morrissey lose his train of thought. He sighed, relaxing his shoulders and allowing Laurent to move even closer, his sculpted chest resting on his wounded back. The feeling was raw, and too intense to be pleasurable. But the feeling of those strong, warm hands, delicately touching his chest, made him shiver, forgetting the coldness all around him.

“Do you ever doubt that I love you?” Laurent murmured in his ear, kissing his neck later. Morrissey shook his head.

“Never, my Count.”

“Good,” Laurent’s hands traced soft circles on Morrissey’s hips, making his breathing faster. “Because I gave you my freedom, so you could make it yours. Never forget the gift I gave you.”

The gift of rejecting the fear of the unknown. The gift of rejecting the darkness of the world, by dwelling on it. The gift of refusing to be a victim of the senseless conflict that was life - by being the very embodiment of that conflict. Being the predator, rather than the prey.

“I won’t, my Count,” Morrissey murmured, as Laurent’s hands ran softly on his thighs. “You pried my eyes open from the Dream.”

“I made you see how senseless it was, how empty of purpose that Tablet of lies is,” Laurent agreed, breathing in Morrissey’s sweet aroma. “You asked me to never be afraid again. Have I delivered on your petition?”

A pause. Laurent’s hands stopped, burying into Morrissey’s hips.

“You have delivered as you promised, my Count,” Morrissey said. And Laurent crossed his arms over his belly, pulling him close.

“And I will give you so much more,” he murmured, softly kissing Morrissey’s cheek. “My slippery Knight.”

His embrace was warm. Even in the coldest of nights, Laurent was always warm; like the fire of a Soundless village burning. It could bring life, and comfort, and something very alike love. But it could also very much destroy, too.

He kissed Morrissey's neck, burying his face where it joined to his shoulder. The Courtier felt how he breathed in his scent, as his arms held tighter, possessive.

Morrissey loved his Count. Of course he did; he pried his eyes open to the truth, he had made him strong, he protected him from the cruel chains of Ventari's Tablet. Morrissey loved his Count, when his breathing became deeper, and his hands got more adventurous, more eager to touch him, to satiate his need of him.

The Courtier smiled, as he turned on Laurent's arms, and stared deep into his eyes. And something wilted inside of him, when the eyes he met were blue as the evening sky, and not magenta like a rare flower.

Laurent kissed him, and Morrissey let him do it as he let him do anything he wanted. He owed Laurent so much. He owed him his life, for starters, and his freedom. He owed him his desire. But there was something bitter, something missing.

The Count's kisses didn't burn him in a pit of desire. His hands were no longer embers, stealing away his self control, leaving nothing but his primal instincts. He was painfully aware of Laurent's actions, of his old tricks, the ones he used to entice him. And for some reason, they didn't work anymore.

When Laurent kissed his chin, and his neck, and his chest, Morrissey allowed himself to frown. Gone was the haze of desire, as much as he tried to get into it. Laurent was dangerous, and powerful, and his hands were clinging to his naked ass in a clear sign of desire. His body reacted; he shivered and sighed and felt how Laurent's hard erection rubbed softly against his own, and it was pleasurable.

But that was it.

"Why don't you get on your knees for me, my love?" Laurent asked, grabbing Morrissey's head in preparation. The Courtier nodded.

"As you wish, Dearheart."

He got up to his knees, cold water around his bent legs, and grabbed Laurent's cock with expert hands. He knew how to do it; he could go through the motions. It was dirty and erotic and it made his cock throb with desire. But there was no painful expectation, no burning craving. But still he licked, and sucked, and closed his eyes with performed abandon, and-...

Morrissey remembered Arlen. His grunts and gasps of desire, how desperate he was in bed. How much he desired him, how he buried his hands on the petals of his head, pleading to be satisfied. His skin, gleaming in the dark, red luminescence, a blinding shimmer of passion and love.

Suddenly, the fire reignited, and it was so easy to suck and lick, and moan and arch his back with abandon. It was so easy, when the hands he felt holding his head looked different that the ones that were actually holding him in place, allowing Laurent to fuck his mouth without regard of comfort or willyngness. It was so, so easy, when all that was in his mind was Arlen’s intense taste, his deep moans, his helplessness as he went mad by desire.

“That’s quite enough, Dearheart,” Laurent murmured, pulling back and grabbing his chin. “Now, I will give you what you crave.”

His hands held onto Morrisey’s jaw, making him stand up and cornering him against the rock wall with no regard of his wounds, making him wince. But, still, Morrissey knew better than to complain, and allowed Laurent to bite his lips and bury his tongue in his mouth.

All that merciless teasing and roughness rocked the illusion, but didn’t manage to break it as much as Laurent’s smell. It was warm, and subtly smelled of embers and cinnamon. Morrissey began to notice that he could barely remember Arlen’s smell at all; maybe it was herbal, and fresh. It would make sense, given how young he was.

“Love,” Morrissey pleaded between kisses.

“Yes, dear?”

“Fuck me from behind,” he asked, breathless. Laurent stopped, giving him a long look, narrowing his eyes slightly. Morrissey feared he would ask questions. But his fear was unfounded, when Laurent smirked and firmly turned him around, pushing him against the rock wall.

“As you wish,” he murmured in his ear, before pushing one finger inside of him with no warning.

Morrissey tensed up, then released, then lowered his head and gasped. The water hit his back softly, washing away the pain, and Laurent’s finger knew how to find all the right spots inside of him. It felt good. It felt good  _ enough _ . Perhaps, even good enough to keep his body ready, while his mind wandered away.

He didn’t allow Arlen to fuck him like this many times, but the few he let him, the sweet little hunter didn’t dissappoint. Clumsy, but passionate, he buried his fingers inside of Morrissey’s needy ass, bewildered and excited, with his eyes open wide and his skin gleaming with beads of sweat. Morrissey remembered the sweet torture of his big, unexperienced fingers, always learning the paths to his satisfaction, always rescuing new ways of touching, of delivering pleasure and building it up, leaving him a heap of gasps and moans, trembling for him.

Sweet, sweet Arlen, lost in the wilderness. Or perhaps still here, behind him, making him claw at the rock wall in desperate yearning. Morrissey held no false pretense of dignity with Arlen; there was no need to do so with a weak, disposable toy. And he loved to see his face, that stern face suddenly lit up with violent, silent desire. Never a single word left his lips -always a bit on the dry, coarse side-, sweet in his inexperienced bliss. It was better that way.

A clean, loud moan left Morrissey’s throat, dying in sweet agony against the rock. And he felt the sudden, brief emptiness and warm hands on his hips, before the sweet first pump of a throbbing, full cock inside of him.

He arched his back, shameless in his pleasure, as he slid slightly down from the wall.It was harsh; it burned in its intensity. But it was needy, and fast, and savage; just what Morrissey was needing. Dropping the pretense of aristocratic grace and dignity - being reduced to the creature of pure instinct he knew himself to be. He clawed the wall and arched himself and offered more room for his lover’s cock to penetrate, moaning once more when his silent plea was met with unbound desire.

Morrissey could picture Arlen, holding on to his hips, waiting for his command to finally cum with an uneasy frown. Always obedient, always yearning for him.

It was a delirium of wet, strong pumping inside, pushing Morrissey to the brink of a catastrophic orgasm, legs trembling and tongue out, like an exhausted dog. The length, girth, and warm moisture of Arlen’s cock had always been so precise to make him lose his mind. He wanted to ride his orgasms, to leave him undone in sweet decadence, to make him squirm, and beg, and yearn, just like he did. For Arlen was his; he had marked him forever with a poisonous kiss, binding him to the darkness of his domain, in exchange for safety, and a sense of control. His sweet Arlen, his soundless hunter. Forever his, in the Nightmare, until the ends of time.

The image was so clear in his mind. Arlen’s skin, his smell, his warmth, the red lighting up his thorns. His quiet, breathless grunts as he was about to become undone. And Morrissey felt, in the haze of pleasure, a terrible ache; a deep, gaping hole in his chest. He had to hold himself, feeling like dying all of the sudden. He was so alone. So empty.

In a bitter delight, he came with a moan that was more of a whimper. His legs buckled, and he struggled to hold himself. Unwelcome tears pooled in his eyes, even if he didn’t know, didn’t understand why.

And Laurent kept on pumping, holding him in place as he clenched around him. And the pleasure turned sour, and the warmth of desire became a burn inside as pleasure faded and he just wanted to be done. He endured, however, holding on to the wall, and to his chest, looking down at the water around his ankles.

His reflection, blurry and distorted, stared back at him.

He heard Laurent’s muffled moans as he finished, filling him with his seed. Shameless, and contempt. Morrissey had a few seconds to compose himself, giving his own reflection a sensual gaze of perverse desire, before standing up, Laurent still inside, holding him closer.

“My, my, Dearheart,” the Count cooed, kissing Morrissey’s cheek. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

“Of course not,” Morrissey murmured, blinking slowly. “Not with you, my love.”

Laurent kissed his cheek again, and bit and sucked on his neck, branding him once more. Morrissey could only think on his own reflection in the water below, staring back at him with distant, sad eyes that didn’t seem to belong to him.


	3. Arrangements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things begin to crumble. CW for violence and death.

Dreamers never understood fear, or pain. It suffocated him - its freezing claw holding onto his very soul. Maddening nights turned into weeks, and weeks to months. Always on the run, always trying to find something, anything, that could save him.

Until the orange light of a great fire attracted his attention. Carefully, silently, he approached the light, and what he saw filled him with dread - as it was all too similar to those images on his Dream.

Sylvari homes, burned to the ground. Bodies everywhere, and the distinct smell of burning bark and sap. Morrissey trembled but couldn’t look away: both fascinated and terrified of the carnage. He wondered who could’ve done such a thing - who could be as evil as the images of his Dream. Was his destiny that he was the one who found it? Was he supposed to help, or to merely contemplate?

Before he could do anything, however, a commotion erupted. Morrissey saw a sylvari Warden appear from within a burning building, wielding a bow and shooting arrows behind her. But without her noticing a fern hound snuck up behind her, and jumped to bite her arm. She cried out in pain, letting go of her weapon, but grabbing a sword instead to fight off the menace. Morrissey couldn’t tell if it was the ashes and smoke, or if the fern hound was as black as the night surrounding the scene.

Suddenly, two sylvari emerged from the burning rubble, pushing the embers around with ease; one was nymble and slender, wearing a long, dark vegetable coat, and the other one was heavily armored, with red, bright eyes shining through her helmet. They laughed and mocked at the Warden fighting the fern hound, as they moved to cut her exit. She noticed, grabbing a second sword and trying to keep them both on her line of sight, along with the hound that retreated towards its owner, maw dripping amber blood.

“You’re strong for a Dreamer,” the armored sylvari said, twirling her sword around. “We could use someone like you.”

“I’d rather die than become a monster such as you, Elys,” the Warden growled, breathing ravaged.

“Ow, my dear Melian, you hurt my feelings,” Elys said, with a mocking pout. “And I just wanted to praise you…”

“Cut the mulch,” the other sylvari muttered, licking his knives. “Tyr could use some feeding right now.”

The fern hound growled, coat standing on ends as it moved with his owner. Elys clicked her tongue in disapproval.

“Our Count was kind enough to let us toy with our prey, Liam,” she said, shaking her head. “Haven’t you learn anything from him?”

“No time to learn,” Liam snarled back, playing with his dagger. “Time to spill some Dreamer’s blood, see how long it burns.”

Melian suddenly growled, launching an attack on Elys. But before any of them could react, the whistling of an arrow flew across the field. Morrissey jumped, startled, as Melian stood still - sword high above her head, and an arrow deeply buried in the middle of her forehead. Elys stood still, frozen in place, as the Warden fell to the ground in front of her.

“You foolish, little knight,” a soft voice called from the burning rubble. “I can’t always be around to save you.”

A figure moved across the fire, seemingly unimpressed with the heat, and the death. Elys and Liam knelt down in a hurry, as the figure stood tall, looking down on them.

“Your services shall be rewarded, of course,” he said, voice dismissive. “But I will not allow any further mistakes.”

“My Count Laurent, I would never-...” muttered Elys, but fell silent when she felt Laurent’s icy gaze on her.

“Elys, my sweet Knight of Decadence,” he said, kneeling in front of her. Elys trembled. “Your way with cruelty is delicious, but sometimes impractical. You shall learn, of course, about the balance needed for it all to fall in its rightful place. But as I said: no more mistakes.”

“Yes, my Count, of course,” she muttered. Laurent nodded, and stood up.

“Now, if there’s no more Dreamers, we should proceed with the plans for tonight,” Laurent said, producing a handkerchief and cleaning his gauntlets of amber blood. “As soon as Loghain arrives, we shall be on our way.”

Morrissey knew he had to run, _now_. It was dangerous to stay. But the way they walked around all the blood and destruction, the poise and indifference of their leader, made him feel mesmerized. He, Laurent, seemed so powerful. As if nothing could ever come close to disturb his eternally disdainful mood.

Was it possible to live in such a way, where pain never got to him, where the horrors of the world were a mere backdrop for a greater purpose? Was there a way out of fear, of the nightmares that plagued his lonely nights?

He was still mesmerized when he felt the sharp edge of a sword on his neck. And a warm body sticking to his back, holding him in place.

“Haven’t the Tree taught you it’s impolite to eavesdrop?” an unknown sylvari murmured, dark blue, bark-like skin reflecting the sudden shimmers of the fires around them. He inhaled the scent of his skin, making Morrissey shudder. “Move that pretty ass up, honeysuckle.”

The sylvari pushed him, still holding him as they walked. As he stepped into the light, his eyes lit up like embers, and the leaves on his branch-like hair seemed to erupt in bright flames. His allies turned towards them, and both Elys and Liam were surprised at first, then intrigued, and amused. Laurent simply contemplated them, still stoic.

“Found a sweet fawn, fresh out of the pod,” the sylvari announced, pushing a terrified Morrissey forward. “He still smells like centaur.”

Elys giggled, coming closer, examining the sapling with amusement. Liam also advanced, with Tyr by his side, both careful like predators. Laurent remained in place, but met Morrissey’s eyes when he shot a desperate, pleading gaze towards him.

“My my, Loghain,” Elys exclaimed, once again twirling her sword around. “This lost puppy looks like a screamer. I bet he makes a lot of noise when you poke him a bit.”

“He saw us, he knows our faces,” Liam murmured, Tyr growling beside him. “He’s gonna tell the Wardens.”

“He won’t last long,” Loghain replied, grabbing one of Morrissey’s arms, and pulling. “Look at how skinny he is. If we let him wander the jungle for a bit, we could watch him starve to death.”

The sylvari’s voices began to fall in silence, as they realized Morrissey wouldn’t even look at them. His eyes were fixed on Laurent, and the Count returned the gesture in turn. Laurent tilted his head to the side just a bit, as Morrissey directed a silent plea towards him.

“What business brought you here, Dreamer?” Laurent asked. It took Morrissey a while to realize he was talking to him.

“My name is Morrissey, and I was-...” he murmured, but Elys hit him on the knees with one of her swords.

“Show some respect to a high-rank Courtier, you spineless scum!” she hissed, echoed by Loghain’s chuckles. Laurent, however, only had eyes for Morrissey, who dropped on his knees and looked up once more.

“I’m just a traveler, I wasn’t spying, I don’t…” he realized he was breathless; the fires around him were suffocating, the smell of the burning bodies made him feel dizzy. “I don’t have stakes here. I don’t care about them.”

He signaled vaguely towards the dead Wardens. Towards Melian’s broken body. Laurent looked where he was pointing, and then met his eyes again.

“What you _do_ care about, then,” Laurent asked, nodding towards Morrissey.

“I don’t want to die,” the sapling uttered, vehemently. A submarine strength on the depths of his gaze. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

He held out a hand, attempting to touch the lower parts of Laurent’s armor. But before he could do so, Liam delivered a swift kick to his face, launching him backwards. Elys giggled once more, and Loghain smirked when he saw the blood dripping from Morrissey’s nose, as he held to his face.

“I say we kill him, Count,” Liam spat, dagger prepared. “Saplings aren’t trustworthy. They’re weak.”

“That is not your call to make,” Laurent warned, but Liam stepped forward.

“You spoke of balance,” he called, as Tyr bared its teeth. “I’m bringing balance alright.”

He grabbed Morrissey by the collar of his clothes, turning him and raising his dagger. But before he could strike, Laurent’s sword descended on his neck, cutting his head clean off his shoulders. Elyn and Loghain froze in place, as Liam’s body fell limp to the side, and Tyr howled towards the empty sky.

“Leave, you beast,” Laurent grunted. “Leave and starve, unless the corpse of your master is good enough food for you.”

Tyr took a step backwards, its tail between its hinder paws, before running towards the thick woods. Without a second glance towards his dead follower, Laurent knelt beside Morrissey, gently touching his shoulder. Elyn winced, looking away.

“There, young one,” he murmured, caressing his arm. “If you speak the truth, I can show you how to forget fear, and in turn, inflict it to others. But as for strength… you’ll have to find it within yourself.”

“I… believe I’ll manage,” the sylvari said, but not the one curled up on the ground. But another Morrissey laying outside the circle of Courtiers, still bleeding, but with determination in his eyes. “I just need you… to show me the way.”

Laurent, for the first time, surprised, looked down on the body he was touching, only for it to turn into a swarm of butterflies. He chuckled, for Elyn and Loghain’s surprise.

“You might just have it in you,” he said, walking up to him, holding him by his shoulders. “Now come. You’ll be under my protection from now on. In Nightmare, forever.”

He caressed Morrissey’s cheek with a tenderness that seemed not to belong to him, as Elyn and Loghain watched in disbelief and disdain, and mild amusement, respectively. And the young sylvari closed his eyes, leaning into Laurent’s hand, letting go off the fear, and the pain, and the horrors of the sylvari town on fire.

It had been years now. Morrissey pursed his lips, remembering the smell of the burning houses and tents all of the sudden. Beside him, Laurent seemed tense; he didn’t much like the rest of the Retinue, after all.

Personally, he only knew very few - like Vevina, Countess of Obedience. A silly, little courtier with delusions of grandeur, sitting on her throne of poisonous flowers, surrounded by enthralled bootlickers and yes-sylvari. A pathetic girl indeed; rumor had it, the Tree had humiliated her so badly that she had no other option than to run away. It was hard for Morrissey to understand what use could she have for the Grand Duchess.

But even her, in all her vanity and uselessness, was better than Fyonna, Countess of Spiders. She was sitting in an old, human chair, covered in dusty cobwebs. As he glanced at the other high-level courtiers, he crossed eyes with her, shuddering upon noticing she was staring back at him. What twisted thoughts was she weaving inside her mind, he’d rather not find out.

And, of course, Sariel; the Grand Duchess’ favorite laphound, sitting on a throne of thorns and poison ivy. Her thorny smirk and sharp glances were infuriating enough, but Morrissey knew better than to defy her, as much as he hated her guts. When their eyes met, he lowered his, feeling his blood boil when her smile widened in response.

“Rise up, everyone,” Lady Rafflesia, Knight of Agony, said, trembling slightly. Morrissey had heard she had been brutally tortured, after some sort of failure to execute Duchess Faolain’s wishes. “Cadeyrn has arrived.”

As they stood up, Laurent held his hand, pressing down. Morrissey couldn’t know if it was in expectant delight, or worrisome doubt. He tried to get a good look at his face to measure up his mood, but could only meet Loghain’s glance at him. He winked - a gesture that Morrissey promptly ignored.

The Grand Duchess’ second in command walked in, greeting the Retinue with a nod that they replied to with sensible bows. There were few things that made Morrissey feel uneasy while on the Twilight Arbor, and Cadeyrn communicating directly with his inferiors was one of them.

“Dear Dukes and Duchesses, Counts and Countesses, Barons and Baronesses, and servants,” he said, standing in the middle of the congregation. “Thank you for joining me with such short notice. My Mistress sends her salutations.”

He glanced at each member of the Retinue once again as they sat back down, acknowledging every single one of them -or perhaps, making sure he had their undivided attention-, before proceeding.

“As you should be aware by now, the Dreamers are getting bold,” he explained. A poisonous, hateful muttering erupted all around him, but died down like wind in the forest when Cadeyrn raised a hand to silence it. “Their attacks are getting more precise, since they defeated the Jungle Wurm. Our operation might be in danger.”

“Perhaps it wouldn’t be,” Sariel commented; the only one with enough importance to dare to interrupt Cadeyrn. “If some of us were able to keep it in their leaves.”

Snickers and chatter raised up again, and Morrissey felt a lump of panic in his throat when he felt Laurent crushing his hand upon catching Brangoire's amused glance towards him. Still, when his Count spoke up, his cold, calculated calm masked his anger.

“All breaches are accounted for,” he said, staring down an all-too proud Sariel. “If you wish to make baseless accusations, then do so openly, please. That way, we can deal with them and deliver punishment.”

“That won’t be necessary, Count Laurent,” Cadeyrn said, lacolic. “The issue isn’t a few stray Wardens looking for missing Soundless.”

A tense silence took over the meeting. Laurent let go of Morrissey’s hand to lean forward in attention, and he managed to let go of the breath he was holding, in fearful expectation.

“My Mistress believes Firstborn Caithe will intervene,” Caedyrn explained. “She’s coming.”

Indignant words erupted in the chamber; indignant, and fearful.

"We should halt our operation until danger has passed," Countess Vevina proposed, earning nods and murmurs of approval out of her cohort. "It is only smart to stand our ground, but not to provoke the Firstborn's ire."

"Stay? Are you insane?" Ebon Knight Moith exclaimed, having suffered the Firstborn’s anger in Briarthorn Den. Vevina pierced her with a death glare. "We should run away, now that we can do it!"

"My children like it here,"  Countess Fyonna murmured, transparent spiders running from crevice to crevice on her cracked skin. "I wish to stay."

“I can defeat them in any way they come for us,” Brangoire, Duchess Faolain’s newest prize, excitedly proclaimed. “So let them come to me.”

“We can’t risk our way of life for pride; Nightmare is far bigger and more important than all of us!” Baron Tarban passionately stated. “We have a stronghold in Brisbane Wilds where we can thrive until danger has passed. Let’s use it!”

"Staying is the choice of the foolish!" Countess Chrysanthea agreed.

"Staying is the choice of the cowards!" Laurent retorted, standing up in ire. "We should take the war towards them, now when they don't expect us! Crush them before they can answer!" 

Cadeyrn awaited until the fire reached its zenith, and then raised his hand once more, enrapturing his audience again.

"I appreciate your input, Dukes and Duchesses, Counts and Countesses, Baron and Baronesses" he said, glancing at each. "But I came here not as a bringer of bad omens, but on our Grand Duchess behalf." 

Sariel suddenly shifted around uncomfortably, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes towards Cadeyrn. Morrissey secretly relished in her uneasiness upon being clearly not in the know about her Mistress' thoughts. 

"Our operation is second to no other consideration in this matter; its importance cannot be understated," Cadeyrn proceeded. "What our Mistress is preparing will change the world in our favour, and we mustn't lose sight of our goal for the selfish desire of self-preservation."

"And what, pray tell, is the Grand Duchess preparing, dearest brother?" Sariel snarked, standing up and walking towards him. The Retinue could barely conceal their tensión upon such blatant disrespect.

Cadeyrn, however, remained calm, if a bit sardonic in his response.

"The secret is hers to deliver, to those she deems worthy, my dear Sariel," he replied.

Sariel seemed conflicted, unable to argue further, but burning inside to do so. She sat back down, fuming in silence as Cadeyrn proceeded.

"What our Mistress asks of you is plenty, but the rewards will be worth the risks," he said. "We have to continue our sacrifices as if this information never came to us."

Tense silence spread over the congregated Courtiers. Morrissey glanced over at Laurent, and caught his lips pressed in a hard line, and a frown that made him shiver even if it wasn't directed at him.

"I understand your hesitations, but please understand this:" Cadeyrn vehemently said. "Firstborn Caithe is instrumental in our plans. Her presence is not only needed, but essential to our success. She must come - and we have to be ready for her."

"This is absurd," Sariel muttered.

"This is our Grand Duchess's will," Cadeyrn replied, narrowing his eyes towards her. "Are you willing to defy her?"

Sariel trembled, burning in wild rage.

"No."

"Then there's little more to say," once more, Cadeyrn addressed the rest of the room, ignoring Sariel this time. "I trust Laurent's forces and Fyonna's spiders will be up to the task."

"My children need to eat," Fyonna murmured, and Morrissey once again did all he could to ignore her eyes fixated on his skinny frame.

"My army is the Grand Duchess' to command," Laurent stated, but Morrissey felt the faintest hint of distrust in his eyes. Cadeyrn seemed to be oblivious to it, or at least pretended to.

"Very well," Cadeyrn approved, nodding towards Laurent. "Will you join Brangoire, Sariel and I as we discuss the battle plans?"

"Of course," Laurent muttered. He glanced at Morrissey and Loghain, addressing the latter. "Tell my warriors to stand ready. Blood will be spilled… Even if it's not on our terms."

"Right away, my Count," Loghain bowed, making Laurent smirk before turning to leave.

Morrissey walked past the congregation, wishing, for once, to go towards his own chambers instead of Laurent’s. After the meeting he would be furious; Morrissey knew better than to be around to be the recipient of his rage. It would be wiser to wait until he was summoned, to ease his Count’s racing thoughts with love, before the storm arrived.

Because a storm was coming. Morrissey couldn’t help but be wary of the looming threat of the Firstborn. Even a passing mention of their names evoked clear images in his head, imprinted on him by the Dream; images that, like bright beacons, not even the darkness of Nightmare could erase.

He had never seen them in person, and yet he knew their names from memory. Trahearne, Wynne, Aife, Riannoc, Faolain, Caithe, Mandos, Niamh, Kahedins, Malomedies, and Nienna. The fact that Faolain was on their side was, in a way, comforting, but also made Morrissey uneasy about the fact that he would have to be her meat shield, as Caithe cleaved through her courtiers like a butcher’s knife. He didn’t ask for it. He didn’t want to do it. And, it seemed, Laurent didn’t want to do it, either.

It seemed like they had no other choice in the matter. Either die as cannon fodder, or die as traitors. It had been a while since Morrissey felt the weight of his own mortality so close.

His dark thoughts were suddenly interrupted, however, when something stuck to his hands. As he pulled from it and tried to examine it, he realized some spider silk had found its way to his hand, and weave around his arm, going up. He grimaced and pulled from it, trying to shake it off, until a lonely spider climbed up his arm and threatened him with its front claws. Disgusted, Morrissey quickly crushed it, rubbing his arm clean with a shudder.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” a voice said, making him freeze.

He turned, facing Fyonna’s attentive gaze. He bit his tongue for once, hesitant to insult a high ranked courtier.

“I apologize,” he muttered, taking a step back. “It startled me.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she repeated, stepping closer. Morrissey, once again, took a step back. “It’ll only make it worse.”

Once again, spiders climbed out of the crevices of her skin, running around and hiding inside her. Morrissey suddenly felt nauseous; he didn’t want to find out if the rumors about her swallowing spider eggs and letting them hatch inside of her were true. But she kept getting closer, and he wasn’t allowed to run away.

“It’ll make it so much worse,” she murmured, a twisted smile spreading across her face. “When they nest in you. Eat you from the inside out.”

Morrissey’s stomach sank, and panic began to set in. And Fyonna kept getting closer and closer, until the Knight felt the stone wall on his back, and the Countess leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“My children are waiting,” she whispered, licking her lips, so close to lick his ear. “You’re soft and tender. They like that.”

“Countess Fyonna,” Loghain suddenly called, appearing from a curve on the path. The Countess of Spiders leaned back to look at him, eyes narrow. “Cadeyrn demands your presence, to coordinate with Count Laurent.”

“Does him?” she questioned. Loghain smirked.

“Would you rather not find that out yourself?”

Fyonna doubted for a second, before turning to smile once again towards Morrissey.

“I’ll see you on the Nursery, dear,” she murmured. “Very soon.”

She then walked back towards the congregation, passing beside Loghain without so much of a glance. He shook his head.

“Crazy witch,” he murmured, glancing towards Morrissey. “You’re okay, Mozz?”

“Yes,” he cut him, turning to leave. “Thank you, I suppose.”

Loghain, however, hurried to take Morrissey’s wrist, making him turn with an icy glare. In response, he just looked at him up and down, with a crooked smile. He was still tall and strong, his eyes lighting up like embers when he glanced upon his fellow Knight.

“There are other ways you can thank me, honeysuckle,” he murmured, pulling Morrissey close to his body. He huffed, unimpressed by his imposing build.

“And I’m sure you’d like that, Loghain,” he snarked, pulling his wrist free. “But you’re not on my level.”

“We’re both Knights, Mozz,” Loghain reminded him, as he turned to leave. “I’ll have you again someday!”

As a response, Morrissey flipped at him. Loghain’s laughter was all he could hear across the labyrinthine pathways of the Twilight Arbor, as he bitterly made his way back to his chambers. He wished to have, perhaps, a little bit of well-earned peace before everything came crashing down on him.


	4. Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Staying on weekly schedule it's easy when I'm on vacations lol
> 
> CW: mentions of vomit, violence, death, blood (a lot of it)

It was close to midnight, and Morrissey wasn’t supposed to be outside. But night called for him, and he wanted to know it all. The Twilight Arbor was beautifully twisted; all its secrets and hidden rooms were luring him to explore. And even if Laurent had prohibited him for leaving his chambers, afraid that someone might want to bring harm to him, the call of the unknown was more powerful than his respect for his new guardian.

But Laurent’s words were more that just mere overprotection. A hand covered Morrissey’s mouth, and pulled him towards the shadows of an abandoned chamber, pushing him against a decaying tree. Before he could ever process his surroundings -the decaying vines, the faint red light, the smell of humidity-, Elys pushed a dagger to his throat, face twisted with rage.

"You little whore," she hissed, red eyes gleaming in the darkness. "You will regret ever showing your pretty face here."

"What do you think you’re-..." he tried to say, but Elys covered his mouth with a crooked smile. 

"Shhh! You don't want my dear Laurent to interrupt our little game, don't you?"

She traced the soft lines of his neck with her weapon; a bright, golden dagger with a jeweled handle. When Morrissey tried to swallow a lump, the tip of the dagger moved up and down along with his own throat.

"Oh, you like these?" Elys murmured, examining the sharp point, its bright jewels. "My Count gave them to me, for my protection. They're coated in a nightmare-inducing poison, and whoever falls victim to it will not awaken in hours time. Whatever happens to them."

Morrissey noticed her eyes wandering around his body, and the edge of the dagger hovering over each point her eyes caught. 

"Wonder where would it hurt the most?" she wondered, as Morrissey struggle against her grip. She was, however, stronger than him. "Once I pierce you, it'll be over; you will sleep, and I'll tear you to pieces and feed them to the fern hounds. So I have to make it count."

Elys dug the dagger in his clothes, tearing them down and muffling his screams with her hand. She smiled, seeing how skinny and weak he was, how immaculate his skin seemed. How easy would be to scar him, before ending him for good.

"Let's find out if you're a screamer after all, little whore," she said, delighted before attempting to bury her dagger on Morrissey's naked chest, cutting a piece off…

And he vanished in a swarm of butterflies. Elys grunted, shielding her eyes, and taking a step back, until she felt a body bumping against her back, crushing her against the very tree she tried to torture Morrissey in. 

"You weak sapling-..." she growled, but Morrissey twisted her arm backwards, making her cry out. "I'm going to enjoy tearing you down, petal by petal!"

"Stop this, I don't want to-..." he said, trembling, trying to subdue her despite her being stronger.

"You won't take him away from me!" she swore, struggling against his grip. "For as long as I live, you'll never know peace! I'll get you, and I'll kill you!"

Something moved inside of him. Something wilted, and burned. Morrissey remembered the fear and anguish, the very thing he never wanted to feel again. Under Laurent's care, he was supposed to break free of the fear. He didn't want to-... No. He _refused_ it.

He twisted Elys' arm further, making her scream in agony and taking away her dagger. Then, he stabbed her in the back with a grunt, feeling beads of sweat running down the petals on his head. Her struggle became weak, futile, as her body slid from the trunk, falling over Morrissey. 

His breathing hinged, in blind rage, as he stabbed her limp body once more, throwing her on the ground and climbing on top of her. Amber blood spilled over Morrissey's hands and arms, staining his tattered clothes, running on the pressed dirt floor. Until he stabbed her on her lower back, provoking a convulse movement before Elys' body fell limp again. The green luminescence slowly abandoning the crevices of her body, until a dark, twisted figure was all that was left of his crime.

In a sudden, painful moment of clarity, Morrissey realized what he had done. Sweat and tears damped his face, as he crawled backwards on the floor, as if physical distance would make it all less real. Elys, Knight of Decadence, was gone. Her blood seeped into his hands.

When he scrambled on his feet to run, he bumped against another sylvari, falling on his back to the floor once again. He crawled backwards upon finding Laurent, gazing over what he had done with a strange glimmer in his eyes.

"My little sapling," he murmured, shocked. Morrissey felt a cold panic setting on his belly.

"I didn't- she… She tried to-...- he stuttered, until Laurent grabbed his arm, pulling him on his feet.

"I know, Morrissey, I know," he assured him, his hands on his shoulders. "And I couldn't be more proud of you."

Morrissey blinked, confused.

"You see, dear," the Count explained, caressing Morrissey's cheek and glancing coldly at his Knight's dead body. "Under my command, the only unforgivable crime is weakness. Elys was strong; her body was trained to sustain pain, to endure a battle. But her conviction was weak. Jealousy… is one pathetic weakness to have."

He lowered his eyes once more, meeting Morrissey's terrified gaze, and smiled.

"But you, sweet sapling," he praised, cupping his cheek with his hand. "You've showed me, from the first day, the strength of your resolution, of your conviction. How much you yearn for freedom, and for life. You deserve this victory. You deserve to be beside me."

Suddenly, the shock died down, and Morrissey understood what he had done. What the blood on his hands, splattered on his naked chest, actually meant. He fell to his knees as nausea overcame him, vomiting at Laurent's feet as he caressed the petals on his head.

"It's alright , Morrissey," he praised. Morrissey trembled, either by nausea, or the uncontrollable sobbing that ravaged his chest. "My sweet Knight of Decadence."

It was close to midnight, and Morrissey was reborn anew.

Death didn't impress him that much anymore. But still, the advancement of Firstborn Caithe and her allies was distressing to behold, even from a safe, hidden balcony. He didn't recognize the sylvari beside her, as they dealt with Sariel. And he was sure he would know at least one of them, with his dark, handsome face, and his delicate fern hair.

"We should do something," Loghain said, as the three Dreamers beat and overpowered Sariel. Morrissey gave him a disdainful glance.

"Oh, she'll manage," he murmured. Sariel cried out when one of Caithe's allies, that handsome sylvari, burned her arm, making her stumble back. "Besides, we should wait for Laurent to come back."

He was, admitely, fascinated about seeing Caithe in the flesh. It wasn't common to see the Firstborn so far away from the Tree, so the spectacle wasn't one to be discarded.

“Why don’t you just die?!” Sariel screamed, deranged. “You rejected my Mistress’ gifts, and yet you dare to come back!”

“I came to end this misery, Sariel,” Caithe murmured; her soft voice, however, carried the strength of a storm with it. “If you keep getting in our way, the Valiants and I will have no choice but-...”

“No! You’re getting in _my_ way!” Sariel cried out, trying to strike Caithe down with her shield. “You won’t take her away from me! I won’t let you!”

Such words brought back memories. Morrissey was almost relieved when Laurent appeared on their vantage point.

"My Knights," Laurent called, approaching the pair in long strides. "What is the situation?"

"Sariel's getting his due, Laurent," Loghain informed. The Count approached the balcony, surveying the situation.

"Who are the Firstborn's allies, brother?" he murmured, narrowing his eyes. Loghain and Morrissey exchanged a quick, complicit glance.

"That's what we wish to know," Loghain replied. "One of them has pieces of a military uniform, though. Probably Vigil.” 

“Maybe he's a disciple of Laranthir of the Wild?" Morrissey proposed, disgust on his face.

“Caithe keeps referring to him as Valiant,” Loghain complemented with a sardonic smile. “What a sad ending to a Wyld Hunt, huh?”

Upon hearing Loghain, Laurent leaned over the border of the balcony, suspicious. Morrissey followed his glance, noticing the unknown sylvari's broadsword, and how he weaved the blue fire of a Guardian with the grace of a born warrior. Suddenly, Laurent took a step back, shocked.

"By the Briarthorn," he murmured. Both Loghain and Morrissey looked at him, worried. "He’s _the_ Valiant. Giralein Bluefire; a thorn-blasted Vigil Warmaster, and Herald of the Pale Tree."

His urgency was contagious. Morrissey couldn't remember anything that could scare Laurent like that.

"What should we do?" Loghain asked, suddenly serious. Laurent rubbed the bridge of his nose, growling.

"It's not worth the risk," he murmured, glancing at his two Knights with studied indifference. Morrissey frowned.

 "Are you saying," he questioned. "We run?"

"Are you for real, brother?" Loghain asked as well. Laurent shook his head.

"I've heard enough of him, during my travels," he explained. “He murdered Lord Gavin, and nearly put Sariel down as well. Wherever he goes, our outposts burn in his wake. He fights like a charr, and speaks like a human noble. And burns like a forest fire.”

Sariel cried out again, as the smell of burnt bark reached the three Courtiers. Loghain seemed disturbed; a worry wrinkle appearing on his forehead. However, as Laurent narrowed his eyes, burning in fear and rage, Morrissey glanced backwards at the Dreamers. A deep sense of melancholy overtook him, even if he didn’t know why.

"If the Grand Duchess wants to play her little games with his enemies, fine.” Laurent finally stated, cold in his burning rage. “But I refuse to let her play _me_."

He glanced at each, defying them to contradict him. Not even Loghain dared to do so.

"Gather our forces; both of you," he ordered. "And find your way towards the Grand Duchess' chambers. We're traveling through the mountains to the west."

After exchanging one last glance, Loghain and Morrissey hurried to accomplish their task. The last thread of his normal life was cut when, as he came down from the balcony, Morrissey could hear Sariel's agonic screams of pain echoing through the dark passages and secret chambers of the place that, for better or worse, had been his home for so long now. So in bittersweet relief, he sought Laurent's forces on the battlefield, waiting to guide them towards uncertainty.


	5. Alliances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurent makes new friends, which is bad news for Mozz. CW for sexual cohersion.

The camp was silent, but that wasn't new. Rumors somehow got to reach them all the time. First, about Cadeyrn's demise at the hands of Giralein Bluefire. Even still, Laurent's forces clung to hope. The Nightmare still existed. The Nightmare was the only right way to face the world. They were right. They were alive.

Then, they knew. Faolain was gone; to where and with what purpose, they didn't know. The Twilight Arbor; abandoned to the weeds, poison ivy, and spiders. The Wardens; doing their best to cultivate the trees, to cleanse the land, to erase the Nightmare’s poison, deeply seeped into the earth.

Morrissey couldn’t bear to think about it. But during his restless nights, when Laurent lay down beside him -too agitated to sleep, too troubled to fuck him-, and they both let the night waste away in improvised tents on abandoned caverns, he couldn’t help to realize that the bitter taste on his mouth was that of defeat.

He dared not, of course, to voice his feelings on the matter. He knew well enough to keep his thoughts to himself, even in the face of the growing despair of Laurent’s army. But as the days turned into weeks, and there seemed to be no end to their wandering, the Knight noted that he wasn't the only one at the edge of despair. 

Murmurs arose as they hid in the Brisbane Wilds, always marching, never arriving anywhere. Rumors had it, even Tarban was dead now, despite having escaped the Arbor's massacre. They were watched, hunted. Eventually, they would find them. And that would be it.

There wasn't much Morrissey could do. Only wait until their time was up. As he made his way to Laurent's tent for another night, he recalled the sleepless night spent in bliss, back when everything was right and good. When Laurent kissed him and praised his fragrant petals. When he offered him to his friends and allies, and when he watched him get undone under his favorite subordinates.

When Arlen kissed him, warm and sweet as they made love. Morrissey rubbed his back absent-mindely, feeling the scar where Arlen had broken his heart. If he had known it would end like this, he would've killed him first, and let himself wither and die without him.

“You thinking about me, Mozz?” Loghain suddenly murmured in his ear, making Morrissey shudder. He glared at his colleague, trying to ignore him.

“You wish,” he grunted. Loghain smirked.

“What I wish, dear, is something you know well,” he said, grabbing Morrissey’s wrists from the back and slithering closer. “When are you going to give it to me again?”

“Our Count Laurent is going to gut you,” Morrissey sneered, feeling him smell the scent from his neck. “Or I will, if you don’t back up right now.”

“Laurent didn’t seem to mind last time,” Loghain replied, his hands getting adventurous. Morrissey rolled his eyes.

“The circumstances were different,” he murmured, feeling soft tickles on the tender skin of his belly.

“You were my prize,” Loghain giggled. Morrissey tensed up, struggling until the other Knight let him go.

He turned, glaring at a way-too confident Loghain.

“He’ll find out,” he warned. Loghain smirked once again.

“Let him,” he cooed, trying to get closer once again. When Morrissey took a step back, towards Laurent’s tent, he raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I’ll take the blame.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Morrissey muttered, averting his eyes. Loghain doubted, before stepping up again. Morrissey didn’t back up this time.

“He’s busy with some new, promising ally, or something,” Loghain murmured, holding his breath for a second before caressing Morrissey’s cheek. “We have time.”

Morrissey leaned in, closing his eyes. Maybe, in another lifetime, Arlen would’ve wanted him like that. Would’ve caressed him like that. Would’ve made love to him like that.

He opened his eyes, glancing on Loghain’s. And smirked.

“Fuck off,” he murmured, his image shattering like a mirror before dissolving in butterflies. Loghain cursed under his breath.

“Mozz, wait, I mean it,” he grunted, trying to grab his prey. But Morrissey didn’t want to listen anymore, hurrying to reach Laurent’s tent.

As he parted open the door, however, his anger abandoned him, as Laurent and his guest turned towards him. Fyonna's eyes shimmered upon seeing him.

"You're alive," he babbled, too shocked to be respectful. Laurent seemed disgruntled, but Fyonna didn't even move a muscle.

"I said I wanted to stay," she hissed, a tense, unnatural smile on her face. "So I did. I hid."

Agitated, Loghain got in right after Morrissey. He seemed just as confused to meet Fyonna there.

“What is she doing here?” he murmured. Laurent pressed his lips in a line, before turning towards his guest.

“Countess Fyonna has come to offer her aid in a marvelous campaign, my Knights,” he said, briefly bowing towards his fellow Courtier. “Her spiders will do wonders in the battlefield, against the Dreamers and their allies.”

“Laurent-... my Count,” Morrissey cut himself, still bewildered. “Are you suggesting we go back to the Twilight Arbor?”

“It’s our rightful home, my slippery Knight,” Laurent nodded towards him.

“But the Wardens-...” Loghain questioned, but was silenced with one look from his Count.

Laurent walked towards his Knights, stopping in front of Loghain, and grabbing his shoulders. Only then, he smiled somehow warmly, or as warmly as he could.

“My brother,” he said, softly shaking him. “We’ve been together for so long. We have survived so many adventures. We have slain so many enemies. Am I wrong?”

“No, my Count,” Loghain murmured. Laurent’s smile widened, even if his eyes were still cold.

“Then believe me; both of you,” he asked, pointing at Morrissey with his chin. “The reward that awaits us on the deepest end of Grand Duchess Faolain’s chambers will be well worth the risk. Our new friend, Countess Fyonna, told me everything.”

During Laurent’s speech, Fyonna refused to stop staring at Morrissey. He tried to pretend not to notice.

“A Nightmare Tree grows on our dark grove,” Laurent explained, making both Loghain and Morrissey look at him with wide, surprised eyes, as he paced around the room. “Whoever claims it, shall have the power to make their wishes come true. A mighty gift from our Mistress, may she be forever embraced in the Nightmare.”

His pacing stopped, and his smile turned poisonous.

“The Dukes and Duchesses are dead,” he murmured, glancing at his Knights. “And so, both I and Fyonna shall reclaim their titles. You may address me as Duke Laurent from now on.”

For once, Morrissey’s eyes lit up. Could it be? What he had sought after with so much burning passion he had ended consumed by Brangoire’s twisted desires, and later on by Laurent’s fury upon finding out his betrayal? Could it be that, at last, Laurent would grant him the title he had always wished to have?

Laurent grabbed Loghain’s shoulder once more, firmly pressing down.

“Kneel, my brother.”

Loghain obeyed, still confused. Laurent unsheathed his sword, carefully placing the blade on Loghain’s left shoulder.

“From now on, you shall be Loghain, Count of Defilement,” he announced, placing his sword on Loghain’s other shoulder. “Serve me well in this, our last crusade, and your rewards will be beyond imagination…”

Morrissey shook off his disappointment to glance up at his, now, Duke, feeling his gaze on him now. Laurent smirked.

“Once I claim the title of Grand Duke of Nightmare.”

Even Loghain seemed shocked at the revelation. So much so, that he didn’t even stood up when Laurent walked towards Morrissey, cuping his cheeks on his hands.

“Dearheart,” he murmured, giving him a short, cold kiss. “Could you give us a minute? We, the Retinue, need to discuss our plans further.”

Something moved inside him. Something wanted to push him to ask  _ why on the Tangled Roots he wasn’t the one getting a new, higher title _ . But as he opened his mouth, the soft pressure on his jaw became an iron claw, and Laurent’s eyes were burning in their menacing, powerful glance. So he lowered his head, nodding.

“Of course, my Duke,” he murmured, turning his back towards the concurrence. And until the tent closed behind him, Morrissey could feel Fyonna’s eyes following him, like a predator ready to strike.

It was unfair. So, so unfair. Morrissey curled his hands into fists, and a soft, frustrated growl grew on his throat. Where was Laurent’s promises of power beyond his imagination? Where was the way out of fear, of defeat? Why he had never, ever felt safe beside him, despite his promise? Why couldn’t  _ he _ be the Count of Decadence, at long last?

His anger burned white, and overrode all else. He would get his revenge. He would make his  _ dear _ Duke pay. He would-...

A wail. Like an animal in mortal agony. Morrissey jumped, startled, before turning towards the closed tent. It took him a while to catch the vague suggestions of words.

“HOW DARE YOU?!” someone called, deranged. After a moment of hesitation, Morrissey stepped closer to the tent, trying to get more. “AND YET, YOU CALL ME BROTHER!”

Laurent’s voice was soft, and cold. And Morrissey realized that the one wailing was Loghain.

“WHY HIM?! WHY?!” he questioned, and Morrissey heard the distinct sound of furniture being demolished and turned over. “WHY TO HER?!”

A cold, terrible sensation of doom overcame him. Could it be…? No. It couldn’t. Not Laurent; not his Dearheart. He would never-...

“HOW DARE YOU DO THIS TO ME?!”

Loghain’s pained, tearful cries made him stumble backwards. Laurent’s calm, collected response never got to his ears. Morrissey realized that, maybe, he didn’t want to know. He didn’t need to know.

The world seemed to move slowly, as he walked backwards, away from that tent of sorrows. A dream-like quality suddenly took over the world, and fog guarded his thoughts. He needed some fresh air.  _ Yes _ . He needed to get away.

Laurent’s favorite soldiers called out to him, but Morrissey couldn’t answer. So he drifted further and further from the gathered tents, towards the dark, hidden corners of that long-abandoned Nightmare outpost, where the darkness was only pierced by his own luminescence. Where the silence was only broken by his own footsteps.

It was a monument to their defeat; that safe haven that Tarban had, so foolishly, offered before his demise. The fern hounds kennels lay opened and empty, as if some unknown force had crushed them open in the months prior. Not even corpses were left to remember what had once were. How mighty Nightmare had been. How sure of their victory over light and joy.

He had been so sure about Laurent’s love for him. About his obligations to him. About the power he would obtain. Now, in the darkness. In the depths of despair, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Between the rubble and the dried vines, he found an old bedding he used to lay down. It smelled of herbs and lockdown; a sweet, sickly scent that got to his head when he curled up on it. It would be fine. It would be just fine.

_ Fear not this night, you will not go astray, my child. _

That dream. He hated that dream. He hated that, everytime he was about to grasp it, it was gone; forgotten in the dark paths of his mind.

_ You will know fear, and pain _ .  _ You will know the dark corners of the world. Poison will touch you, will suffocate you. But it will not taint your heart. _

Light, warm light right in front of him. He could almost touch it. He could almost let himself be embraced by it.

_ You must press on _ .  _ You must be strong. And then-... _

Morrissey blinked, in a drowsy haze. It wasn’t light, but luminescence. It wasn’t a voice, but a presence.

It wasn’t Laurent, but Loghain.

He sat up, tense all of the sudden. But Loghain didn’t move; contempt to contemplate the darkness of the heart of the mountain, supporting his weight on one of the few columns left of the structure where Morrissey rested in.

He seemed calm; slowly smoking a cigarette without making a move. His faraway eyes, the only clue of a terrible, overpowering emotion.

Finally, Morrissey shattered the silence.

“What do you want?”

Loghain took his time to answer, breathing in smoke.

“We’ll move in the morning,” he explained; his head, a smoky halo of fire and autumn leaves. “Laurent-...  _ Our Duke _ wanted to make sure you’d left with us.”

He put out the cigarette on his boot, glancing at Morrissey with intensity. It was more than the mere burn of desire this time.

“I’ll go when I’m ready to,” the Knight murmured. Loghain blinked.

“I’m your Count now,” he noted. Morrissey glared.

“I am aware,” he replied, as cold as the rock under the bedding.

Loghain discarded the cigarette, coming closer and kneeling down in front of him. They stared down at each other.

“Am I good enough for you now?” Loghain questioned. Morrissey narrowed his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“You always said I was never on your level,” Loghain insisted, kneeling closer. “Now I’m a Count. Am I good enough for you?”

The warm, overwhelming passion in his voice left Morrissey disarmed. He opened his mouth and then closed it, confused. Loghain’s advances were always clumsy and inappropriate, but there was something different now. A devastating, unbearable sincerity.

He didn’t say anything. Not even when Loghain loomed over him, looking down at his skinny body with unbound desire. Not even when their mouths clashed, in a chaotic kiss that couldn’t satiate the depths of Loghain’s need. Not even when he felt his hands reaching for his silky tunic, parting it open, exposing his tender skin, so scarred by Laurent’s love.

Because there wasn’t anything to say. Loghain would never be good enough for him. But as he fucked him mercilessly, stealing kisses and drinking up his moans and swears, Morrissey felt like back on those sleepless nights where all was right in the world, and Arlen made love to him in a hidden corner down the guts of the earth.


End file.
